


The Mind Has Mountains

by sleepaway



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ered Luin, Gen, Idiots in Love, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Oblivious Dwarves, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Work In Progress, oblivious and grumpy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepaway/pseuds/sleepaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about friendship and loyalty, and the sense of duty and respect.</p><p>A collection of snapshots of Thorin and Dwalin's friendship and beyond, inspired both by Tolkien and Peter Jackson, and fueled by my imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mind Has Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters, and no profit is being made here.
> 
> Âkminrûk zu = Thank you

It was late in the afternoon that Thorin was rushing down the halls in haste, for word had reached him of the return of a small, nameless company of soldiers of Thorin's Halls.

Of course, to anyone else the information could've meant just about any group of soldiers – scouts, peoples, individuals and groups of soldiers did tend to come and go to and from Durin's folk's city in Ered Luin. They weren't at war, and so the city was (read: relatively) open. Technically, it could be any other group of wayward scouts of their kingdom returning home.

Except maybe it wasn't.

The fact that their anticipated return had been announced several days ago way from the far edge of their modest kingdom – a great distance away north-east – meant that the company had come along a road less used, or alternatively not along a road at all, and must've travelled from far across the land of the Lost Realm.

That slightly paranoid approach to reach home did sound very much like someone Thorin knew.

That, or he had simply gotten his hopes up in vain.

In the end there was only one way to find out, hence his haste, for they had arrived. Thorin was making his way through the upper levels, and had yet to reach the Great Hall where he'd meet the group and where they'd likely discuss their travels in great length, when he walked past a vast tangential corridor that he happened to look down in passing - then abruptly stopped short, backed up a little, and took another look.

There wasn't a time or place Thorin wouldn't recognize the size or shape or posture of the dwarf currently approaching him, yet for a brief moment he foolishly thought he was seeing things in his anticipation. His bafflement was shattered, though, as the dwarf suddenly stopped as well upon laying his eyes on Thorin. Then an easy, all-too-familiar smile spread across the dwarf's usually stoic face, and Thorin released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

“Dwalin,” he exclaimed, and the name left his lips in the form of a question. Yes, Thorin had been hoping to meet exactly that shape and size and posture and even that smile that day, only not quite like this. He'd expected a joyous reunion, yes, but only after long discussions with his company and with elders, maybe catching the eye of his old friend, perhaps even managing to exchange a few words in between, and maybe afterwards, at best. But whatever he'd expected, whatever he'd hoped, certainly wasn't this – not quite here, not by almost-literally running into him, alone, where both of them would have each other's full attention.

It had been years.

"Thorin!"

So, to suddenly watch as Dwalin, his lieutenant, his right-hand man, his _friend_ , approached him from a direction opposite from any of the main halls or gates did take Thorin by surprise.

“I didn't expect you here,” he blurted out, almost accusingly. Dwalin halted in front of him, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Aye, am I not welcome?”

Thorin shook his head, mind racing a mile a second as he went on to correct himself, “Here. In the Halls. In these parts of our Halls,” he took a deep breath, “I was on my way downstairs to meet the company and welcome you back."

“Ah, well, I had to go and see whether you'd given up my chambers to some sorry sod, didn't I?”

The thought had never even crossed Thorin's mind. “And?”

“You're becoming soft.”

Regardless of the odd tension that lay heavily between them still, similar to the one that had fallen there before Dwalin's departure, a smile broke on both of their faces simultaneously, and the pair of them lunged into a brief wrestling hug, chuckling. There were things Thorin knew they needed to discuss, alone, but at the same time he was simply glad for the smallest chance to feel him, to convince himself his friend was actually, physically back.

“You're injured,” Thorin stated as they broke apart, smile fallen, frowning at the partly dried blood covering one side of Dwalin's neck, as well as at all the fresh cuts and scars that had appeared on his arms and face.

“Nay, it's just a scratch,” Dwalin shook his head while Thorin studied him dubiously.

“Come on,” Thorin beckoned him to follow, and started back the way he'd come from.

Dwalin, of course, was quick to follow him, but it took him a while before he asked, “We're going to the wrong direction.” Not exactly a question, though Thorin treated it as such.

“I suppose your men would rather have the night off, don't you think?” he said, studying his friend's face that, underneath all his defences and grim personality he put up for strangers and for business, did look, to put it mildly, dead exhausted. “We can hold the debriefing tomorrow, after you've all had your share of rest.”

Some of those defences of Dwalin's seemed to fall apart in relief, gladly accepting the offer. Some things never did change, Thorin mused, and Dwalin's distaste for debriefing and unnecessary chit-chat was most definitely one of them. With Thorin, though, Dwalin was always quick to tell what was on his mind.

“The Wildmen are moving," he grumbled as they walked, paying no heed to the fact that the week-old injury on his ear and neck was still wet with his blood, and showed no implication of pain.

"And?" Thorin knew there was an 'and'.

"We encouraged them to reconsider."

Thorin couldn't help but smile a little. He knew he'd get the story out of Dwalin with little coaxing, but was also somewhat worried at what he might find out. He wouldn't ask his friend about losses or victories specifically, knowing that was what they had ahead of them the following day - Dwalin, too, deserved his rest - but also trusted that whatever Dwalin thought was necessary for Thorin to know before that, he'd tell.

They reached Thorin's chambers just as Dwalin had started to curse the Dundelings under his breath. Thorin simply beckoned him to take a seat without comment, and went on to send out a word that debriefing was set out for the following morning, somewhat unnecessarily; he knew most of the soldiers, having been under Dwalin's command, had likely already gone on their own ways for much needed rest before the night's celebrations, for celebration always followed the return of the their kin. Sending back for them now would hardly gain support on their behalf.

"We ought to fight 'em further off," Dwalin began as he made himself more comfortable, not hesitating to share his insight with him now that they were surely alone. Thorin looked at him over his shoulder; the topic of conversation, his relaxed stance and even his choice of chair a direct replica of the days before, many years ago, when this exact sight was almost of a daily occurrence in Thorin's chambers. Again he smiled to himself, realizing now how much he actually must've missed his friend. "We ran into them a number of times over the years, more recently the kind that inhabit near Angmar."

"They did that to you?" Thorin asked as he was looking for whatever medical supplies he had lying around, and gestured towards Dwalin's injury with a frown. His friend's eyes were closed in exhaustion. "Aye. We pushed 'em a bit, and I reckon they don't fancy that, because a small group followed us when we were crossing the Realm on our way back. I suppose they got a bit jumpy when we got closer to the Mountains, and tried to take us by surprise at night. That was not ten nights ago."

Thorin ignored the flame in his stomach at the thought, even though he was sure no worse injuries than that of Dwalin's had been handed out that night. One shouldn't try attacking dwarves at night.

"You're getting slow," he muttered, half-heartedly teasing, but also curious; Dwalin was his best fighter, there wasn't a way he could imagine him getting hurt like that by a small number of Wildmen spies.

Again his friend grumbled and frowned at him, bemused, but took a moment to answer. "One of the lads lost his footing and was damn near killed on the spot. I took the blow for him."

 _Of course,_ Thorin thought, resisting the urge to shake his head, but let out a considerate hum. Dwalin, for a moment was silent and tense, and Thorin knew there was something weighing on him.

"They're an awfully young lot. They've not yet seen war, but mere skirmishes with scavengers," Dwalin spat, frustrated.

"They have you as their commander, no soldier could ask for better than that."

"I can't give them experience."

Thorin was now standing next to him, setting the supplies on a stone table along with a bowl of tepid water. "Not all have had their first battle be the like of Azanulbizar, my friend," he said gently. Dwalin, too, had been so very young back then, and to be faced with such violence with little genuine experience must have had a profound effect on him, and it was something Thorin thought of often.

Fundin had fallen that day.

Dwalin held his eyes, and Thorin knew they were thinking along the same lines, for there was sadness to be seen in Dwalin's, until he blinked away the contact and took in the supplies laid out on the table.

"What do you think you're doing?" his tone was accusative, yet Thorin had not expected anything less, and so didn't bother to answer.

But when he took a wet rag towards Dwalin, the dwarf gripped his wrist to stop him, "Thorin," he said forcefully, "I can go to the healers."

Thorin only looked at him pointedly with his brows raised. "We both know that's not true. Now, remove your shirt."

He was well aware that Dwalin often did not bother with healers, not until someone convinced him he was dying unless he did so; he would much rather let his wounds go unattended, the dull pain and ill-healed scars a reminder to himself to be quicker on his feet come next battle.

Dwalin gave him another murdering glance, but did as told and lifted off his stained shirt with some difficulty; there was quite a lot of bruising spread out over his muscled torso, and Thorin raised an unimpressed eyebrow; Dwalin was clearly more hurt than he let on, though that was almost always the case. He'd started to believe his friend had long ago lost all earthly concept of pain. Thorin only offered the barest hint of a sigh in return of the glare he received, and then started to carefully wash away the blood and the dirt to determine the extent of Dwalin's injuries.

"I would if you told me to," Dwalin muttered, very often keen on getting the last word in an argument, but more gently added, "I would not betray your trust."

"I know," Thorin answered immediately, causing his friend to look up at him, and for a moment they simply studied each other. "You came back, didn't you?" Thorin stated, content, and carried on rinsing the rag, now tainted with blood.

"Aye, I'm home," came the quiet reply, "And wherever it is you'd lead me."

The finality of that statement caused Thorin to stop his movements: for at that moment he could feel his blood run cold, and he realized he was, in fact, afraid. Afraid that Dwalin was feeling guilt, still, and afraid of wherever it was he would lead his friend, in the end.

He knew full well it had been Fundin that Dwalin had followed into the Battle of Azanulbizar, to seek vengeance on the utter mutilation of Thror, their King, and to end the War, once and for all.

But Fundin had fallen and his remains had been burned and his ash had spread out in the night sky of their silent victory, along with the ashes of Frerin and countless of others.

And it was Thrain to whom Dwalin had then sworn his allegiance, and him and Balin had followed them all the way to the Blue Mountains - instead of making their way to the Iron Hills where the vast majority of their kin prospered.

And after many years of slow recovery and hard-won peace, it had been Thorin who'd been left behind to remain building on their new life in Ered Luin, to watch as his father had left, with a company that included the two sons of Fundin, on a silent quest to reclaim Erebor. It had been a long silence that had followed in their wake, until one day his companions had returned most unexpectedly, with the news of their King's unexplainable disappearance, and presumed death.

Leaving Thorin.

Yet it had not been the grief of his father's death that he'd found the most unbearable then, for Thrain had long been lost to him - it was Dwalin's guilt that had been simply too much to bare.

They'd not always been friends, Dwalin and him, not from the moment they'd met - yet it was as though Thorin almost couldn't remember time before him, now. They'd fought a lot, of course: at first against each other, both physically and verbally, then side by side. There wasn't a lot a good wrestle and a fist fight or three couldn't sort out, and in the end they simply couldn't bother anymore; they'd clashed way too often to always pick a fight when they did, and in their exhaustion and in a silent agreement they'd given it up, and had hardly left each other's sides since.

Thorin had come to accept the undying fact that Dwalin had a habit of speaking his mind at all times, even in the company of the Heir to the Throne, and in turn, Dwalin recognized Thorin's pride exceeded his own. In his service to the Throne, Dwalin had been the one to keep the closest eye on Thorin, and in the end their companionship had become a force of nature, unbreakable and genuine.

"If that is what you wish," Thorin said quietly, but in a form of a question, as well as an offer. He would not have his friend beside him only because of contrition, and would not regard him with any less respect were he to walk away the next minute, and it seemed only fair to give him a chance to do just that.

Thorin did not hold Dwalin responsible for his father's fate, and he thought he'd made that clear, all those years ago.

"Yes," Dwalin grumbled, bowing his head at Thorin, who took a vial of medicating liquid to another clean rag to proceed his task and busy his hands.

The wound was rather a grim one, if Thorin was being honest. Half of Dwalin's right ear had essentially been ripped apart, with an extension of a deep cut going down the side of his neck. Luckily, it was mostly of the nature of a flesh wound, and could be sewn shut with little complications, though he was certain the only problem of getting the injury properly looked at was going to be the patient himself.

He wasn't one with outstanding medical abilities, himself, but the least he could do was clean it up properly with careful fingers and try not to do any more damage. Perhaps he could get Oin to take a look at it, later, for it would dent Dwalin's pride the least.

"You don't owe me anything, Dwalin, you must know that," he said eventually, carefully trying not to apply too much pressure on the cut, for he was sure Dwalin was in enough pain already without him making it any worse. The medicine must've stung, though, for Dwalin tensed and flinched away briefly, and was, for a moment, silent.

"I would still follow my King."

"I'm hardly worthy of the title," Thorin said, and it came out more bitterly than he would've preferred.

Dwalin again took the hold of Thorin's wrist, only this time to keep it where it was, forcing him to press the rag against the cut more boldly. Thorin met his eyes, and they were open and confident, and neither of them broke the stare between them for a long while. Slowly, Thorin began to realize it all still came down to utmost trust, between them. Nothing had changed, and Dwalin had returned to him.

It wasn't his title that had caused him to stay by Thorin's side all that time, like it wasn't his guilt that had made him come back, even if it'd been what drove him away.

And nothing had changed.

"I would also follow a friend."

Thorin nodded, grateful, and placed his other palm on the other, healthier side of Dwalin's neck, and gently rested their foreheads together.

"Âkminrûk zu," he murmured, before pulling away.

Dwalin gave one of his rare smiles in return, and let, a little less begrudgingly, Thorin then apply some salve on him to soothe his neck. There was little else to be done to the wound at that point, not before he could find Oin.

"There," he finally announced before starting to clean up, and Dwalin sighed in relief.

"What ever happened to your company's healer, I wonder?"

"I may have threatened to rip his arms off were he to touch me," Dwalin answered with a familiar glint in his eyes, and ready to argue Thorin in the matter.

"Ah. Such threat should not be taken lightly," he admitted, more in order to humour Dwalin than anything, since he'd much rather see his friend take better care of himself. Dwalin grunted in response while pulling his shirt back on, and Thorin didn't chase the escaping skin with his eyes, but instead turned away to pour some water for him.

"You'll make a busy King.. runnin' around making sure everyone's wounds are attended to," the Dwarf taunted good-naturedly.

"I'll be busy enough with you," was Thorin's response, and he handed the water towards Dwalin, who looked positively unimpressed with his pampering. "Drink. I won't have you collapsing over dehydration on my watch."

Dwalin eventually accepted the drink, and had his eyes locked with Thorin's as he drank. "There are better brews to drink, I think, in the King's chambers," he said.

"There'll be enough of that tonight, I'm sure," Thorin dismissed him. "You've lost blood, so for now I'd say you had better go get some rest while you can."

The other nodded, and rose to leave, determined not to show any signs of weakness or pain as he did so, if Thorin knew him at all.

"And you?" Dwalin asked as an afterthought, as though he hadn't actually meant to ask, but had done so regardless. Thorin studied him awhile.

"I'll attend the feast, yes."

His friend bowed his head in recognition before turning to leave the chambers.

"Dwalin?" Thorin called before he did so, and the Dwarf met his eyes once more.

"Aye?"

Regarding him for a short while, Thorin nodded as well, "Welcome home."

For that, Dwalin gifted him one of his rare smiles.

"Aye."

**Author's Note:**

> In the original draft I was much more specific about their age and how they'd met, but seeing as there's a lot of controversy on that matter between Tolkien and Peter Jackson, and because I draw from both of them, I decided to simply make it a bit more vague in those areas, forgive me.
> 
> I'll continue writing chapters for this, about some key-moments of their friendship before 'The Hobbit' and maybe during that, as well as after.
> 
> Feedback equals love, as usual!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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